Friday, November 22, 2013

It’s winter here in our corner of Canada.
This means cold.
And snow.
Fortunately, I like snow.
Though cold and I regard each other with suspicion bordering on outright dislike.
And now, I’m thinking about summer.
Because that’s how I roll . . .
When I was growing up in the Deep South . . . of Alberta, the kids of our neighbourhood played together.
There were running games.
Hiding games.
Games of skill.
Games of brute force.
Games of pretend and make-belief.
And not one of them electronic.
In fact, the only thing that interrupted our play was the setting sun.
Or our parents calling us in to supper.
One of our neighbourhood favourites was a game we affectionately called, ‘Anti-I-Over’.
Okay, I don’t know where that name came from.
And maybe you played a similar game but by a different name.
But we loved it.
I will describe . . .
The game consisted of at least two players.
And a ball. Preferably a softball or something softball-sized.
Each player took up a position on either side of the house.
You heard right.
We were standing on either side of the house.
Where visibility was . . . limited.
Then the person with the ball would shout, “Anti-I –Over!” and throw the ball.
In an arc.
OVER the house.
The person on the other side would brace themselves, waiting for their first glimpse of the incoming ball.
Then run and try to catch it.
It took speed.
And lightning reflexes.
And a good arm.
Because it took a bit of oomph to get said ball over the house.
Oddly enough, no windows were ever broken in the playing of this game.
Although no few balls ended up in the rain gutter and had to be fished out by someone with authority.
And ladder skills.
This summer, I introduced my grandkids to this game.
We started simply.
One on either side of the pirate ship. (The one in our back yard. And yes, we have a pirate ship in our back yard. Don’t ask…)
One would yell, “Anti-I-Over!” and the other would brace for the retrieval.
They loved it instantly.
And played it for hours.
Happy sigh. My work here is done.
Nearly.

It probably isn't obvious, but with purebred animals, control means the difference between a progressive herd.

And one that is headed only for the meat market.

It is an exacting science of reading pedigrees and understanding genetics.

I rode the horses and put cows where Dad told me.

You can see where I was on the 'ranching is science' scale.

So back to the control thing . . .

A good fence means that things are ordered.

Predictable.

Profitable.

Poor fences spell trouble.

And diminishing returns.

Thus, the most important task on the Stringam Ranch outside of actually . . . associating with the cattle, was building fences.

Something Dad did rather well.

Let me tell you about it.

Building a four-wire barbed wire fence takes many stages.

First, the building of the corners, a sturdy framework of posts and neatly twisted wire, capable of sustaining enormous pull.

Then stringing the wire between the corners. This is a tricky part. As my brother, George can attest.

Then, planting posts in a straight line along the wires.

Note: Hold post from the side

Accomplished with a 'post pounder' mounted on a tractor. A useful, but potentially dangerous gizmo.

Then tacking said wires to said posts.

This was my job.

All it took was a steady hand.

Or if you lacked that, stamina.

Which was what I had.

If the first whack or two didn't get the staple into the post, the next 14 whacks would.

Moving on . . .

This was at that point most of the fence-builders would pack up their tools and call the job finished.

And where the true artists shone.

Remember, we were talking about my Dad.

Once the fence was actually assembled, Dad would stand back and look at it.

I should point out here that the fields in Southern Alberta are seldom flat. They may not change much, but they do change.

And a fence has to run smoothly along them.

I emphasize the word 'smoothly'.

If a fence goes down into a dip, then up again, the tightly stretched wires can actually, over time, pull the lower posts up out of the ground.

True story.

And that is where Dad came in.

He would walk along the fence, find the places where the line would dip, and weight it.

Really.

He would find a large rock (not uncommon on the prairies), tote it over to the dip, fasten a wire around it firmly, then attach the rock to the fence, pulling the wires down so they followed the ground perfectly.

I had watched him do this so often that, to me, that's just how it was done.

I was wrong.

Once, an elderly rancher from west of us came looking for the county veterinarian.

Who happened to be out building fence.

The man drove up in his rusted old pick-up and stopped near where my Dad and brothers were working.

Climbing out of his truck, he greeted everyone, then stood and watched their activities.

Finally, Dad finished with his current wire and rock creation, and turned to speak to the old man.

Only to find him in tears.

Thinking the man had a real emergency, Dad quickly walked over.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh nothing," the old man said, blowing his nose. "It's just that I haven't seen that kind of fence-building in fifty years!"

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .